


Alone in the Dark

by Charli



Category: Silent Hill, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charli/pseuds/Charli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disasterous encounter with zombies, Sam searches for his brother in a town called Silent Hill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set around season one of Supernatural, and uses scenes, creatures and concepts from the game Silent Hill 2.

_He hides._

 _Alone in the darkness._

 _Praying that someone will find him. Praying with all his heart that something won’t._

 _A second runs the course of a lifetime and he can feel prickles of cold sweat breaking out on his brow and the back of his neck. He’s trying to breathe shallowly, evenly. Listening for the telltale shuffle but unable to hear anything above the sound of his thumping heart. And then he hears._

 _Metal on stone. The sound an axe might make if it were being dragged across the floor. The exact same sound._

 _He resists the urge to pat down his pockets in the hope of finding a weapon; he already knows they’re empty. Now he regrets tossing the broken torch away in temper, even a small blunt object might have made the difference between dying a hero and living to fight another day._

 _He can smell ethanol and cloves, and his own fear, which smells like bitter lemons. His right arm, his fighting arm, is busted and his trousers are wet with blood, from a deep gash across his right thigh. It’s only the fact that he hasn’t passed out yet, that he knows it’s not an arterial bleed. Small mercies._

 _Then the voice comes from without the door, and within his head. It sounds mushy and slow, as if the speaker has a mouth full of oatmeal and broken teeth. The word bubbles wetly from the speaker, and it rips his heart apart, “Sammy.”_

Exasperated, Sam throws the map into the foot-well, “I give up.”  
“We’re lost?”  
“We’re not…lost. I’m just not sure where we are.”  
“Admit it little brother, you’ll feel better.”  
“And you’ll feel superior.”  
“If you’ve got it…”

Sam turns his head to stare out of the window. Half-dead sun-baked trees and parched grass stretch as far as the eye can see. Every now and then a small decrepit, derelict building appears, as bereft of life as the surrounding fields. He half expects to see the picked-clean gleaming white skeleton of a cow lying by the side of the dirt road they are travelling along.

“I know where we are,” Says Dean “We are in the ass-end of nowhere.”  
“We’re supposed to be in Allington.”  
”Well you were the one reading the map.”  
Sam sighs and retrieves the crumpled map. He smoothes it out on his lap and squints at the lines and then looks out at the passing landscape. “I don’t think this road is even on the map. Did you see a signpost anywhere?”  
“Did you see me see a signpost?”  
“We need to stop and ask directions.”  
“You think?”

Without warning, Dean suddenly swings the Impala off the main road, if it could even be called that, and down an even smaller and dirtier track. “Dare I ask?”  
Dean sniffs “You see any signs of life back there? Anyway I saw a sign.”  
“You saw a sign?”  
“I saw a sign.”  
“I didn’t see you see a sign. What kind of sign?”  
“The kind that points the way to directions.”

The car bounces its way along the track for many minutes, any sign of life seeming as remote now as it had on the main road and then, “Cows.” Sam points out of the window.  
“Well done Sammy. Can you see a horsey too?”  
“It a sign of life wiseguy. Cows mean farmhouse.”  
”Why do you think I turned down here?”  
”Lucky guess.”

The imposing farmhouse is as dilapidated as every other building they have driven past on the way here. Scrawny looking chickens are running around in the yard and Dean avoids running any of them over as he pulls up alongside a knackered car that looks like it might have once belonged to the Toyota family. Scrawny chickens and scrawny cows, he wonders if Sam might’ve spoken too soon when he classed it as signs of life. Sam folds the map up and slips it in his back pocket as they alight from the vehicle. “Hello? Anyone home?” Dean hollers.

Sam walks across the yard, scattering chickens as he does so, and climbs the few wooden steps that lead up to the front door. He raps sharply on the door. Faded green paint is peeling away from the wood and the frame looks as if one weak kick and the whole thing will fall apart. Dean walks around him and along the porch and presses his hands up against a window and peers inside. Too much orange dust on the outside, and the grimy yellow nets that hang on the inside, prevent him from seeing anything.

There’s something in the air that Sam can’t put his finger on, a sense of foreboding, as if somehow they shouldn’t be here. If ever he actually wanted a vision, now would be the time for one. Dean tries the front door and it opens wearily. “Hello?” he calls out again and takes a step inside.  
“Dude?” Sam puts a warning hand on his shoulder.  
“What?” Dean turns and lifts an eyebrow at him “I just want to use the bathroom.” Sam raises an eyebrow back, “Seriously, my kidneys are getting ready to pack up their things and move out.”

Sam reluctantly follows his brother inside and casts his eyes around in the gloom. It’s as if the bright light of day cannot penetrate inside here. The air is thick and oppressive and the faint scent of something sweet hangs off it. Sam can’t quite place it but it is familiar to him and not, he feels, in a good way. Here and there, a shaft of sunlight breaks its way through the occasional hole in the ragged net curtains and motes of dust dance away from them as they walk into what once might have passed for a sitting room. Furniture is ancient, moth-eaten and crumbling. Faded books line up on a worn bookshelf and Sam knows if he touches them, they will fall apart in his fingers.

“Dean, I don’t think anyone lives here now.”  
“But what about the cows?”  
But they both know that the cows look underfed, that they haven’t seen proper feed for months. All the signs are there, and yet they both ignore them. Every moment of trepidation is just an adventure they haven’t started yet.  
“We should go.” Suggests Sam, and then there is a thump from upstairs.  
Dean grins, that wide shit-eating grin of his, the one that tells Sam that the adventure is about to start.

The stairs look downright dangerous, and Sam believes they might just be taking their lives in their hands by venturing up them. But up them they go, Dean in the lead, Sam doggedly following in his wake. They reach the landing and are confronted by five closed doors. “You pick.” Offers Dean.  
But before Sam can reply, another thud reaches their ears. It’s coming from the far end of the corridor. Sam reflects that it’s always the very last door. The very last place you’re going to look.

Dean marches straight ahead and raps sharply on the door. “Hello? My brother and I are lost. We’re wondering if we might use your bathroom and get some directions?”  
There’s no reply. Neither of them is surprised. Dean taps the door again and tries the handle. It turns smoothly. He pushes the door open and enters the room.

Everything happens so fast that Sam scarcely has time to draw breath.

The figure lunges from the back of the room and sinks its teeth into Dean’s neck. Sam hears the sound of skin tearing, and grabs for his brother who is being pulled into the room. Dean has no time to comment, no time to think. His jugular is severed before he even realises what is happening. Sam grabs at thing biting on Dean and tries to pull it off. It releases its grip and Dean slumps to the floor. It turns to face Sam.

It may once have been a man, the tattered clothes that cling to its decomposing body attest to this fact, but now it has dead eyes in a long dead face. Teeth still gnawing on a chunk of his brother’s flesh, arms outstretched, reaching for Sam. From somewhere deep in the back of its throat, through vocal cords long decayed, comes an unearthly moan. It is a moan of longing, of necessity. Of wanting. And it wants Sam.

Sam punches it hard in the head as it approaches him. It’s like knocking the air out of dough when making bread and the head scarcely wobbles on its neck. He high kicks it in the chest and gets behind it, pushing it out of the door and away from him and Dean. He slams the door shut. There is a key in the lock, and it turns.

Safe for now, he turns his attention to his heavily bleeding brother. “Oh God, Dean.”  
He turns him over. The eyes are closed, breathing ragged. The wound in his neck gapes open, his life blood pumping its way out of his body. Sam presses his hands against the wound. Got to apply pressure. Stop the bleeding.

The blood seeps between his fingers, soaks into his jeans as he kneels on the floor. His hands are slippery, making it hard to apply pressure. He lets go and pulls his t-shirt off over his head, bundling it up and pressing it against Dean’s neck. The white shirt blossoms with flowers of red and in seconds it is soaked through, but it is easier to grip.

The eyes flutter and open. Dean opens his mouth but he can’t speak, his vocal cords are flooded. A viscous red bubble forms in the corner of his mouth, pops, and sprays Sam with his dying brother’s blood. He has blood on his hands. His face. His chest. It’s everywhere and yet still his brain is refusing to make the connections that will allow him to believe that Dean is dying.

He doesn’t have the time or the wherewithal to think about what the thing outside the door might be or whether it’s still there, whether it’s going to suddenly force its way back into the room. At some point he knows he going to have to come up with a plan. A plan to get Dean out of here and safely to the car. And then find help. And by help he thinks hospital. He already knows that a little blood can go a long way to making a lot of mess. But this is a lot of blood, and when it starts to slow alarm bells start ringing in his brain. And he looks, really looks, at his brother.

Dean is dead.

It could have been seconds, it may have been minutes. It feels like hours before his brain finally lets him register the fact that his brother has stopped breathing. How long? He panics. How long was it until he noticed? He releases his grip on the blood-sodden shirt and places his hands on Dean’s chest. He pumps hard, and feels and hears a rib snap under the pounding. He tips the head back and opens the mouth. Wiping away the blood from the mouth with bloody fingers seems pointless. He clamps his lips over his brother’s and blows hard into his lungs. The chest rises and falls and he blows again. He resumes his compressions, tasting salt and metal in his mouth. This is the essence of his brother and it is on his tongue and coating his teeth, and he cannot give it back.

He pounds and breathes, and Dean just lies there like a lifeless, broken doll. He thumps hard on the chest “Come on, breathe dammit.” But no matter how hard he wills it, nothing is changing. Time is continuing its slow steady march and no matter how hard he tries, or pleads, or cries, nothing is going to change this one ineffable fact:

Dean is dead.

Sam falls backwards, away from the body. He can’t think; he can’t speak. He can feel hot tears tracing a path through the blood on his face. His chest hitches, once, twice and then the sobs come.  
His brother  
His protector  
His friend  
The one thing that made him a better a person is gone. And it no longer seems to matter how he is going to get out of here.

Dean’s eyes snap open.

At first Sam doesn’t notice; his head in his hands, blood and tears in his eyes.

And then Dean sits up, and this time Sam takes notice and gets to his feet as his previously deceased brother gets to his. “Dean, my God. You’re okay?” he moves forward as Dean turns his head and snarls.

And Sam gets it first time.

Blind eyes. All colour gone from the iris, all signs of life, gone. The flame that burned inside his brother is long extinguished.

Teeth bared. A wet guttural growl rising from within it.

This. This thing. This is not his brother.

It lunges hard at Sam who dodges left and avoids the incoming blow. It stumbles, but regains its ground with surprising speed and agility. It reaches an arm out to grab him and Sam tries to block it. It grabs his arm and Sam twists away, trying to get it to relinquish its grip. Instead of stepping into Sam’s movement, the thing pulls backwards and up and there is a sickening snap as Sam’s right arm breaks. He cries out in pain and fear and slams his body back into Dean.

He still thinks of it as Dean. As his brother. Even though he knows this is far from the truth. The truth is in another country. His mind is telling him what this thing is, but he refuses to listen. After all the things he’s seen, that he knows about, he still refuses to entertain the possibility that he knows what this thing is. He cannot bring himself to even think the word. It is beyond reason. Beyond ridiculous.

His brother is sick. He knows this is a lie even as he thinks it. Dean is possessed, or under a spell. He draws a little comfort from these fictions he is weaving for himself. If it is sickness, if it possession, if it is magic, then there is a cure. He pretends he doesn’t see the dead eyes, that he doesn’t hear the blood lust in its moaning.

Dean staggers back from his blow and Sam races for the door. His fingers fumble with the lock, and after what feels like an eternity, it clicks back and the door is released. He yanks it open, pausing only momentarily, to check for the other thing that he pushed out here. The landing is empty and he runs for the stairs, not even turning to look behind him to see if his brother is pursuing.

He races down the stairs, clutching his damaged arm to his chest for support. He hits the hallway running and turns and runs for the front door. He takes only a second to register the fact that the door is closed, hadn’t they left it open? He skids to halt in front of it and wrenches it open.

Two of them. Male. Moving slowly at this moment in time. Their cognitive processes all but destroyed, it takes them a while to understand what they are seeing with their milky-glazed eyes. Decomposition has already taken quite a toll on their features, skin hanging slackly against bone, breaking open like parchment and leaking suppurating body fluids. Teeth bared in bloody mouths and arms reaching ever out in the hope of finding flesh. Sam’s flesh.

Sam starts to charge them, prepared to use his shoulder to shove them out of his way. That is until he notices the knife. The creature lashes out him, the knife low in its grasp and it slices like butter, midway across his right thigh. Sam grunts as he feels denim and skin split and separate. He can’t feel the blood from the wound seeping down his leg since his jeans are all ready soaked through with that of his brother.

He slams the door shut in their dead faces and turns. Dean is just taking the first step at the top of the stairs. Sam limps along the hallway; running is no longer an option. He enters what he supposes was once the kitchen. Flies hover over a large table in the centre of the room. The table is covered with rubbish and rotten food. He can’t identify the food, and he doesn’t want to.

He hears the front door fly open and bang back against the wall. He crosses the room and pulls open the door in the far wall. Steps lead down into murky darkness. He enters and pulls the door closed behind him. He takes it a step at time, slowly. Because of his leg, and because he is waiting for his eyes to adjust to the poor light. He is optimistic that there will be another way out of here. He has to be optimistic because dying is not an option. He has to save his brother. His poor dead brother.

The basement is large and cold. There is wall to wall shelving but there is little stacked on it. He spots what looks like a torch and reaches for it. He presses the button, but nothing happens. He shakes it violently; it flickers feebly and then dies. He tosses it aside and starts looking for a way out.

There is a door, behind some boxes which he hurriedly pulls aside. He opens it reluctantly; already he knows this will not be the way out. The door at the top of the stairs creaks painfully as it is opened and Sam steps inside.

The toilet is barely big enough to contain him but he pulls the door shut and tries to gather his thoughts. The thumping from his heart fills his ears and he wonders if Dean’s heart is still beating. He hears Deans voice in his head “What are you going to do Sammy, die on the toilet?”

 _Metal on stone._

 _“Sammy.”_

He braces himself against the door and when he is convinced that Dean is stood directly outside he charges.

Dean falls backwards, away from the door, away from Sam. The axe falls from its hand and Sam barely has time to wonder where he got it from before it is moving again and trying to get to its feet.

Sam runs as fast as he can up the stairs. He ignores the pain in his leg; speed is of the essence now. He has a plan. Well he has the inkling of a plan, but he wonders whether he has the capacity to see it through. His favoured arm is broken and his favoured leg is injured, all in all things could be going better for him. There is a window in the kitchen, and he intends going through it.

The scene plays out something like a bar fight in a western.

Something dead is in the room with him. Sam kicks at it, hard, with his good leg. The creature’s right leg cracks and splinters, its bones as fetid as the rest of it. It falls to the ground, hands scrabbling for purchase. Sam feels its fingers scratching at his ankle, still trying to grab hold of him. He aims a hard kick at its head. The weak skull explodes on impact, black blood and brains spray his leg and the ground. He doesn’t have the time to feel nauseous. He scrambles onto a work surface and shielding his face, he jumps through the window.

He lands, hard. Tangled in the dirty nets, and glass splinters in his hair and pricking at his bare chest and back. He runs, dragging his leg slightly, around the side of the house. He’s heading for the Impala. Or rather he’s heading for what’s in her trunk.

It dawns on him after an age, as he reaches the car, that the keys are in Dean’s pocket.

He glances around, looking for something he can use to force the lock on the trunk with. Somehow he doubts that kicking at it is going to cause it to pop open. He yanks open the door of the abandoned car that they parked next to. It’s full to overflowing with crap. He rummages around, trying to find something he can use. For the first time today, the Gods smile on him. He comes up with something that looks a little like a rusty crowbar. He grabs it and heads over to the Impala.

He braces the bar against the lock and forces it with all his body weight. The lock creaks and moans and is finally popped out of place. He opens the trunk and grabs the shotgun. Somehow he doubts rock salt shells will work on these things, but a good old-fashioned shotgun shell to the head will pretty much drop anything he reckons. He just prays that he can aim well enough with his left arm.

He walks slowly back towards the front door, which is now hanging from its hinges. He raises the gun as a figure comes into view in the hallway. He’s relieved to see that it’s not his brother. The long dead thing shambles towards him and Sam winces in pain as he pulls the trigger.

Its head explodes. It rains a meat shower over the walls and floor. The body stands still momentarily and then collapses. He is about to step over the body, to walk back into the heart of darkness, when a hand grips his shoulder tightly.

Sam turns on the spot and fires instinctively.

He watches in slow motion as his brother’s features are torn apart.

He knows, deep in his heart where reason and logic still have residence, that his brother was dead, long before he fired the weapon. That Dean died on the dirty floor, of a dirty room, without a fight, without a chance to defend himself. Without a chance to be the hero he was.

Sam knows he is not a hero, and he howls. It is the howl of a defeated man, and he falls to his knees, and the shotgun falls to the ground.

It is over.

Everything.

Is over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disasterous encounter with zombies, Sam searches for his brother in a town called Silent Hill.

_Over._

 _Everything is._

Sam is on his knees howling at the failing light of day. It is a cry of sorrow, of deep pain. It is the cry of loss and this is a man who has lost everything. Dean’s body lies in the dirt, and the skinny, curious chickens approach cautiously to peck at the pool of blackened blood that is soaking into the ground. He staggers to his feet. His arm is still broken and he can’t tell if the wound in his thigh is still bleeding or not, but the pain from both is fading to a dull agony.

He falls heavily against his brother’s corpse. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you this time.”.

He pats Dean’s pockets until he finds the one that contains the car keys. He avoids looking into his brother’s half missing face. He pulls the keys out and looks at them sadly. Dean’s beloved Impala. More loved than any woman in the world.

He grabs his brother’s legs and begins to drag him over to the car. Wherever he’s headed, he’s taking Dean with him. He thinks he should probably find a hospital. He releases the legs and they drop heavily to the ground and he pats his own pockets. He pulls out his mobile phone. He forgot this. How could he forget this. He flips it open. He is unsurprised to see that it is not picking up any signal. He punches in 911 anyway but it doesn’t connect. He stuffs it back into his jeans and unlocks the car.

As he lifts Dean into the back seat he understands why they coined the term ‘dead weight’. It is a struggle, especially for a man with a busted arm. He doesn’t care. It is only the pain that is keeping him alive. He has no intention of leaving his brother behind, at least he can give him that much.

He slides into the drivers seat and inserts the key in the ignition. He turns the key a notch and the stereo comes on, picking up from where they last left off:

 _…now they’re gone  
came the last night of…_

Sam switches it off quickly. It hurts too much. It’s too much of his brother in this tiny little space. The engine catches and fires on his third try. He floors the accelerator and the back wheels kick up a cloud of dust and feathers as he makes good his escape. He hightails it back along the dirt track, heading for the main road. He hangs a left at the junction and tries to avoid his brother’s dead half stare in the rear view mirror as he drives.

And he drives for what seems like hours.

He drives until he’s no longer sure what he’s running from. A sign flashes in the headlights, “73 County”. He pulls the map from his back pocket. It’s the only thing he has in his possession that’s not covered in blood. He wrestles it across the steering wheel, trying to keep an eye on the road, his broken arm against the wheel and his good arm holding the map.

“73 Country” isn’t showing. He keeps his eyes peeled for more signs.

“Welcome to Silent Hill”

Silent Hill isn’t shown on the map either. He no longers cares. He’s found a town. He’s found life.

He can find help.

He drives slowly along the main road as buildings start to come into view. A post office. Closed. A church. Dark and silent. He winds the window down and smells the cool night air. There is a misty haze around the orange glow of the streetlights, but they are the only lights. He continues to drive at a snails pace. He passes a bank and then an apartment block. It scarcely concerns him that there are no lights on in the entire building.

As he crosses the next junction, passing something called Rosewater Park on his right, he sees on the left a sign, “Jacks Inn”. This place, he reasons, has to be occupied. Or at least have a phone. His mobile has failed to pick up a signal since leaving the hell that was the abandoned farmhouse. He wonders if it is faulty. He could try Deans, but he really doesn’t want to go rummaging through a dead mans pockets again.

He pulls into the car park. The lights are on and he hopes that someone is home. He steps from the vehicle and approaches the front door. And he catches sight of his reflection in the glass.

And it is a reflection he does not recognise.

His hair is wild and peppered with tiny shards of broken glass which catch the light. His face and chest are smeared with blood and dirt. He is filthy and his jeans are torn and stiff with his brother’s blood and his own. He carries his right arm at a strange angle and all together there is a wild brightness in his eyes that he has seen before in the terrified eyes of deer, caught in the Impala’s headlights.

He pushes the door open, as much to get away from his own fixed stare, as to gain entry. He wanders into the bar and is immediately reminded of stories he’s heard about the Mary Celeste. He’s heard all the stories about ghost ships, although it’s not something the Winchesters tend to specialise in. The bar is brightly lit and deathly silent. Chairs and tables stand empty. Optics line up behind the bar, and above them a row of polished glasses, all that’s missing is the barman to fill them.

He’s too tired to call out, and too wary now of drawing unwanted attention to himself. He manoeuvres himself behind the bar where he finds a telephone. He puts the receiver to his ear, and then immediately drops it. There is a high-pitched whine coming down the line. The squeal of static. He taps the connector a few times and punches some numbers, but still the noise keeps coming.

He replaces the handset back on the cradle and turns back to the bar. He notices, near to the door where he entered, a wooden rack containing what looks to be tourist information. He walks over and picks up a small brochure that contains, among the adverts for local businesses, a small map of the town. One block over, highlighted on the map, is Brookhaven Hospital.

Sam is about to head back out of the door when suddenly the jukebox in the corner bursts into life.

 _…sadness  
and it was clear she couldn’t go on…_

He is jerked rudely out of his reverie, and the music seems particularly loud after the oppressive silence of the town. He recognises Blue Oyster Cult, and the same tune that was playing in the car. Sam doesn’t believe in coincidence. He doesn’t believe in zombies, and he doesn’t believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Despite everything he’s seen, he’s not the believer his brother was. He does believe that he will still find help at the hospital, and he exits the bar with the strains of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” still playing inside.

The rear nearside passenger door to the Impala is open. He’s sure as shit he didn’t leave it open.

Dean is gone from the back seat.

He looks around wildly. In a seemingly deserted town, who comes out of nowhere to take a mutilated corpse? Although today he’s starting to believe that anything is possible. He gets into the car and tries to start it. The engine whines a few times and then dies completely. He climbs out and kicks the tyre.

And then he hears it.

His brother’s laugh.

That filthy chuckle of Deans. The one he knows so well. The one that tells him he’s the butt of a joke, again. His eyes follow the sound to the entrance of a narrow alleyway between buildings, approximately two hundred yards from where he’s standing. He watches as a figure darts between the houses and into the alley. “Dean.” He says softly.

He races to the opening but the person he saw has disappeared into the darkness. The glare from the streetlights does not seem to penetrate along here. Sam runs back to the car and, with some difficulty, opens the damaged trunk. He rummages in a bag and pulls out a grey t-shirt. He’s too agitated to be really cold but the night air is cool against his filthy skin. He pulls it on, tugging it down and not bothering to tuck it into his waistband. He reaches in again and pulls out two .45’s. He stuffs one in the back of his jeans and keeps hold of the other as he comes up again with a torch. He slams the trunk shut with his elbow and returns to the alley, flicking on the torch and holding the gun out in front of him. He reasons that after all that has happened, and is happening, he should at least be a little cautious.

He half walks and half runs along the dark alleyway. There are high chain-link fences on either side, all shut, all secure. He dodges trash cans and precariously placed boxes, scanning ahead for any signs of life. The silence is eerie and almost overwhelming. All he can hear is the padding of his sneakers against the tarmac as he jogs along and his own ragged breath. There is nothing to indicate that anyone has been along here recently.

After a short time he emerges onto a sidewalk. He turns off the torch and stuffs it in his pocket; he still keeps a tight grip on the gun. Across the deserted street is the imposing Brookhaven hospital. He crosses the road and climbs the entrance steps. He pushes open the glass door and enters the empty waiting area.

He walks around the side of the unmanned reception desk and calls out “Hello? Can I get some help here?” he is not unsurprised when there are no answers. He opens a few doors and stares into equally empty treatment rooms. He is about to turn away when he remembers the gash in his thigh and his broken arm. He knows he can’t do anything for his arm, but he can at least do something about his leg. He rummages in drawers until he comes up with a bandage and a suture kit; time to test his field medic skills.

Sam removes the gun from the back of his pants, unbuttons his jeans and lets them drop to the floor. He perches on a chair and threads the needle. The cut is deep, the meat of his leg muscle dark against the pale lips of the cut. He doesn’t pull it apart to see how deep it is, he doesn’t want to know. He squeezes the edges of the cut together and sucks his lips in between his teeth and chews on them as he pushes the needle under the skin.

His stitches are uneven but they do the job of closing the open wound. He counts ten large sutures as he snaps the thread. He places some dressing over the top and tapes it down. He was always good at this stuff. He pulls his jeans back up over his legs and picks up the firearms.

It’s as he’s exiting the room, heading back towards reception, that his ass starts ringing. He gropes in his pockets for his mobile, the strains of Nerf Herder’s theme to Buffy the Vampire Slayer echoing loudly in the deserted hallways.

It’s Dean’s tune.

Sam thought it was funny when he set it up, now it’s making the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He looks at the tiny screen. It’s definitely Dean calling, and yet the signal strength indicator is still showing empty. He presses to answer, and holds it up to his ear.

“Sam?”

Dean sounds distant and far away. Of course he does, thinks Sam, he’s dead. But he never could ignore his brother. “Dean? Is that you?”

“Course it’s me Sammy. Where are you?”

“Where am I? Where the hell are you? You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Now you and I both know things aren’t always what they seem. I need you to come get me. I’m at the Lakeview Hotel, Room 213.”

The connection goes dead and Sam stares at the phone in his hand. He goes for the re-dial but there’s no number listed. And there’s still no signal.

He plays back the conversation in his head. Things aren’t always what they seem. It’s true that in the past his brother hasn’t always been his brother. Doppelgangers, Skinwalkers, plain old possession, there are a hundred and one supernatural reasons that could ultimately support the truth of Dean Winchester still being alive.

And one that discounts it: the plain and simple fact that he blew off half his brother’s head with a shotgun.

Back out in the main waiting room, a shuffling noise from the end of a dark corridor attracts his attention. He turns his head and sees the shadowy figure of a nurse. Dressed in white, hair pinned up underneath her hat, her back to him, moving along awkwardly. She staggers as if her arms and legs are disjointed, tottering heavily on stick-thin legs. Something is wrong with this picture Sam thinks.

He approaches her cautiously, and as he flicks on the torch to better light his way, she turns to face him.

She has no face. Smooth pale skin covers any features. He raises the gun in his hand, and as he does so she raises the long iron bar in hers. No sound, just the slight clickity-click of her heels against the tiled surface of the floor as she lifts the bar up over her head, ready to strike.

Sam fires four shots into the body and blood immediately appears, spreading across the dirty white uniform. She crumples and drops to the ground, the bar falling from her hand with a resounding clatter.

He walks up to the body and pokes it nervously with his foot. It’s dead. “What the hell…?” he mutters under his breath but before he can finish his train of thought he hears a now familiar clicking coming from somewhere behind. He turns and sees two more of the creatures shambling in his direction.

They’re moving slowly enough that Sam doesn’t hang around to fight with them. Why waste bullets on something you can outrun?

He exits the building, coming back out onto the empty street. Walking down the steps he pulls the small town plan from his pocket and scans it for the Lakeview Hotel. It’s shown as being just the other side of Rosewater Park. He ducks back into the alleyway, heading back the way he came.

Emerging on the other side he starts towards the main road leading out of town and towards the park. He pounds the street hard as he rushes along, eager to put an end to this mystery and wishing desperately that Dean were here with him. Or Dad. Or Jess. Or any other living soul. To be able to hear a sane voice in amongst the irrationality of the situation.

There is a flash behind his eyes as something explodes inside his mind. He stumbles and half-trips over his feet. He presses the cold metal of the gun to his forehead, screwing his eyes up tight against the sudden migraine pain.

 _…blood…_

 _…blood everywhere…_

And just like that, the vision and the pain are gone. His eyes clear and he pants slightly and recovers his posture. He braces his hands on his knees, breathes deeply and then continues his trek.

Without warning, something steps out of the darkness from between the houses, and blocks his way. It’s as tall as Sam and the upper body sways back and forth, like a cobra ready to strike. It resembles a man, but its arms are bound tightly in a filthy straitjacket. Blindfolded with teeth bared, it moves in his directions. Sam takes a step backwards.

And then it spits.

The viscous black fluid sprays his chest, and it burns like hell. He pulls free the gun from the back of his jeans and shoots directly into the centre of the creature. It takes five rounds to drop it and as it collapses, Sam quickly rips his ruined t-shirt off, smoking holes appearing across its centre. He rubs his chest but thankfully the thick material of the cloth stopped the acidic bile from reaching his skin.

It takes him almost twenty minutes to reach the entrance to the park, but thankfully the roads are deserted and there are no more nightmarish encounters, he runs with a gun in each hand just in case. The road leading in is closed by a padlocked chain slung between two posts. He climbs over it, wincing as the stitches tug in his thigh. It’s then he realises this is a lakeside park. How he missed that from the map he doesn’t know. It’s a moot point anyway, land or water, he still has to get across to the hotel on the other side.

Next to a locked up wooden hut are some rowing boats tied up, bobbing gently in the water. He tosses the guns and the torch into the bottom of one of the boats and unties it from its mooring. Struggling slightly, he steps into it and settles himself down and grabs the oars. Its going to be a challenge trying to row in a straight line with a broken arm, but right now he figures just about anything is possible.

He pulls the oars from the rowlocks and sets out across the vastness of the lake. He rows slowly but steadily, the only noise being the water lapping at the side of the boat. The world is dark around him and he can see the streetlights glinting back at the shoreline. All about him a strange mist is beginning to settle over the surface of the water. He shivers, he is without a shirt again and this time he is cold. He is cold, and in pain, and confused as hell. As far as he knows he’s chasing a dead man in a town that can’t possibly exist.

After a time he reaches the short jetty and climbs out of the boat, glad to be back on dry land, but not glad to be here. The mist has travelled inland with him, swirling around his feet and making goosebumps appear on his bare arms. The doors to the hotel are unlocked and although the lights are on, the place is deserted. He makes his way over to the reception desk and looks at the board of keys behind it. The keys for 213 are hanging there. He takes them and heads for the stairs.

As he is climbing the second flight a lightening bolt of pain rips through his mind again.

 _…dirt…_

 _…dust and dirt…_

He staggers and slumps against the wall, trying to keep on his feet. He stumbles up the few remaining steps and blindly rounds a corner, running headlong into a tall solid figure. His feet skid out from under him and he crashes to the ground, skinning his elbows on the rough worn carpet as he tries to brace himself against the fall.

The thing he has made contact with is terrifying. And he knows terrifying. Seven foot tall and naked, two long legs lead up to a fleshy torso, but where the upper body should be, are two more legs flailing about in every direction, as if they have no concept of the attributes of normal human joints. The mottled skin over its surface is slick and shiny, and as his right hand makes contact with one of its limbs Sam recoils from the repulsive touch of the cold slimy flesh.

The upper legs suddenly start to hit out at him, pounding his face and chest and Sam holds up one of his arms to try and shield himself from the blows that are raining down. He uses his other arm to prop himself up and try get back on his feet again. This thing, this deformed mannequin, is much stronger than him and it continually forces him back to the floor.

He kicks out at it, hard and succeeds in knocking its leg out from underneath it. It crashes to the floor, narrowly missing him. Sam is back on his feet within seconds and running headlong down the corridor as it begins to right itself. He glances at the numbers on the doors as he runs, 210, 211, 212 and finally he is in front of 213.

He fumbles the keys in the lock, looking back over his shoulder at the creature that is heading, once again, in his direction, the upper limbs waving about like some kind of fleshy antennae. The key turns in the lock and the door opens; he falls through it and shuts it quickly, locking it from the inside.

Inside the room, the lights are off, and he blinks slowly as his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. “Dean?” he calls “Are you here?”

His heart leaps as his brother answers “Sammy, I’m over here.”

He follows the sound of the voice and moves deeper into the room. The worn shabby furniture hides in the half light and Sam can make out a doorway on the other side of the room. The door opens slightly and a shaft of bright light spills out across the floor. As he crosses toward it, little clouds of dust from the carpet puff out around his feet. The things that should command his attention, no longer do so. He takes in nothing of his surroundings and continues on auto-pilot towards his intended reunion.

He pushes open the door. His brother is facing him, bathed in light, a beatific look on his face; a face that is intact and whole and smiles in welcome and recognition. Sam moves forwards and opens his arms in greeting.

 _scrawny cows and scrawny chickens scratching in the blood-soaked dirt_

Deans holds up a hand and presses it against his brother’s bare chest. The freezing fingers burn icy cold into his flesh.

 _Dean cradled in his broken arm, his handsome face ripped apart by a shotgun blast_

The fingers push through his flesh and surround his heart. He feels no pain as Dean takes his heart in his hand and the blood in his veins begins to turn slowly to ice.

 _he feels nothing as teeth close over his limbs and hands tighten around his neck_

 _…don’t fear the reaper… ___


End file.
